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“It’s my body.”
“And now it belongs to me,” he says sternly, his eyebrow arched like he’s begging me to argue.
Wrapping the towel tighter around myself, I step forward, determined to grab the sex toys out of his hand as he goes through the rest of my toy bag, clearly dividing them into two piles. I don’t have a massive amount of sex toys, but when Octy and I first became friends, I confided that none of my boyfriends had ever made me come, and she bought me what she called a self-love kit that had pretty much anything the solo orgasm enthusiast could need to find the promised land.
“These you can keep and play with whenever I’m not here,” he says, pointing to a pile that includes a couple of vibrating bullets, a toy that sucks your clit, some nipple clamps, a grinding toy, and a couple of butt plugs. “These are off limits.” He points to the vibrator and dildo.
“I can order myself new toys.” I try to protest, but the argument is weak at best.
“But you won’t, will you?” he purrs, closing the distance between us and pulling the towel from me. “You want to please me, don’t you, Little One? You want to be a good girl for me and you know I’ll be disappointed in you if you push anything into your tight little pussy. Filling your needy cunt is my job now. Once I fuck your ass, I might make that off limits too, but for now, I like the idea of you stretching yourself with one of these little plugs while you flick your clit.”
“I don’t like anal,” I blurt without thought when I should be insisting that he can’t tell me what to do.
“You don’t? Why not?”
“It hurts,” I whisper, remembering the one and only time I tried it. It hurt and I bled, and I haven’t even considered trying it again.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go slow, and I won’t take you there until you’re begging me to.”
I’m relieved at his easy acceptance, but then I question why I’m even thinking about this because I won’t be here.
“Find something to wear. No underwear,” he orders, taking the last of my clothes from the case and hanging them on the rail beside his own. Once he’s content that my case is empty, he presses a kiss to my forehead before he disappears from the room, taking my suitcase with him.
Am I really going to get dressed without putting on underwear? Even after a shower, I can still feel the aftereffects of multiple rounds of unprotected sex and all of the bodily fluids he pushed and fucked into me. But defying him seems impossible. I might be scared of him and our history, but it’s not fear that will keep me obeying his rules. It’s because he’s right, I don’t want to disappoint him. I know the moment I go downstairs, he’s going to see if I obeyed him, and I want to hear him call me his good girl, especially if it’s for the last time.
Because once he leaves, I need to, too.
Stepping into the closet, I glance at my clothes hanging next to his and sigh. I’ve never shared space with a guy before. With the handful of guys I’ve dated in the past, it’s never been serious enough to move in together. Being here in his home, especially after last night, is the closest I’ve ever gotten to living with a man, and even though it’s only been a handful of hours, if I had the chance, I know I could get used to it.
Sex before we get up and start our day, showering together, him insisting I don’t wear underwear while he cooks breakfast for us both. It sounds too good to be true, and that’s because it is. Because what he and I did last night, it’s all just a fantasy, because in the real world, he’s my estranged stepbrother who hates me.
Dragging a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a fitted, cropped shirt out of the dresser, I pull them on, grabbing my hairbrush from the pile of stuff he dumped on the bed after he emptied my case.
Tugging the brush through my wet hair, I quickly style it into a high ponytail, then exhale before I leave the bedroom and head downstairs. The scent of bacon gets stronger as I descend the stairs, and my stomach turns. I’m not a preachy vegetarian, I just don’t like meat or the smell of it cooking.
“Come and sit,” Oz orders the moment he sees me.
“I might sit outside,” I say politely.
“I want to be able to see you,” he says, a hint of a growl in his voice.
Trying not to breathe through my nose, I take a seat at the dining table.
“Why are you all the way over there? Come and sit at the breakfast bar,” he orders.
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I stand and cross to the breakfast bar, slipping onto one of the stools and forcing a smile to my lips.
“Do you want eggs with your pancakes?” he asks, humming to the quiet music he has playing.
“No, thank you.”
“Tell me about your job,” he says, happily flipping pancakes on the griddle while the bacon he has cooking sizzles in the pan on the hob.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“You said it was something to do with marketing?” he questions.
“Yes, that’s right.”
